Stuck in the Web
by sherlock-and-key
Summary: Molly and Lestrade wake up together, but nothing is quite as it seems. Any ratings, criticisms, or comments are truly appreciated. I will continue to update  as often as time allows.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I own nothing.

You know that feeling you experience waking up somewhere that isn't your own bed? The momentary freak-out when you try to remember where you are? This is what Molly Hooper felt when she woke up on the bright, sunshine-y day (for London, anyway) of May 21st. Except the momentary freak-out wasn't momentary, and after a few seconds she still didn't know where she was. Her heart rate began to speed up. _Jim. _Everyone had told Molly that he wouldn't come back for her. He had used her and threw her away like trash. But what if this was him? She didn't move at first, looking around. The pounding in her skull surely wasn't helping matters either. She finally came to this realization: She was _hungover_. Like, seriously hungover. This never happened to her. _Ever._ She was good little Molly Hooper, after all.

She looks around some more, carefully taking in her surroundings. She was obviously in a man's bedroom. Not Jim's, though, she realized with a sigh of relief, and immediately felt calmer. _A tasteful man at least_, she thinks to herself. She turns over and the sheets next to her are rumpled but empty. _Where is he?_ There is a dresser against the wall, a closet, and wooden floors. Her stomach turns as she recognizes her skirt and top from yesterday tossed haphazardly on the floor. _I don't know if I _want _to remember_, she decides sardonically.

As this has never happened to Molly before, she doesn't quite know what to do. Does she gather her things and walk home? Or try to find him? She feels uncomfortable in this stranger's flat. Or is he a stranger? It's a mystery to Molly's fogged and still half-asleep mind, so different from her normal sharp and fine-tuned brain.

There's also a bookcase. She can work with that. She looks at the titles. Novels, mostly, but a few historical non-fictions, several back issues of sports magazines, and a couple biographies. But then she looks at the bottom shelf. _The Greatest Crimes in History_ and _Art Thefts of the Twentieth Century_ were among the titles. So, someone from the police force. They were always barging into Bart's, asking to look at corpses and autopsy reports. Unless- she let her mind wander for a moment- no, no. It certainly couldn't be _him_. He was in a committed relationship with his "flatmate", or so everyone assumed. No, a detective for the police, then. Who else…? _Oh good God, don't let it be Anderson_, Molly thought. She would never, ever forgive herself.

So she tries to reconstruct her night as she awkwardly lies by herself in this bed. She worked from 8:30 to 5:00 yesterday. What happened? Oh, yes. Sherlock had dragged half of Scotland Yard in for a demonstration on a corpse. After that, though. What then? Her mind stumbled through the hazy and seemingly distant memories. Drinks. Everyone was going out for a drink, and had invited Molly along, which hadn't surprised her. Normally the Scotland Yard crew ignored her unless they needed her corpses, but after Jim (_Moriarty_, she reminded herself. Jim from IT was just a mask) had manipulated her and left her, she had been on the receiving end of a lot of sympathy from people she barely knew. After all, word got around fast. After Ji-_Moriarty_ had left and Molly could finally speak about what he had made her do, Lestrade had said she could come and talk any time if she needed to. Everyone was so concerned. The Yard had recommended a therapist, but Molly declined. So instead, everyone became incredibly careful around her, never mentioning him and being overly friendly. Even her best friends sort of tiptoed around her. The Yard itself, on the other hand, simply assured her he was gone; he wouldn't come back for her.

She had felt out of place, but accepted the invitation. The only person she had even communicated with prior to this was DI Lestrade, but he was friendly enough. Molly thought that if she went for drinks, perhaps she could convince them that she was fine. Of course, she wasn't, but it had been four months and she needed to try to move on.

She vaguely recalled talking to Lestrade. ("Please, Molly, call me Greg.") They were chatting about Sherlock's strange habits and tendency to barge in at exactly the wrong time. So maybe… Her stomach flipped a little, and right at that moment the bedroom door opened.

"Morning," said Lestrade tentatively, walking over to the bed with a mug of tea. He handed it to Molly. She let herself smile. He was a good man, a kind man, and quite frankly, if she was going to be waking up in anyone's bed on a Saturday morning, it may as well be his. "You slept well, I take it?"

"Fine, thanks," Molly says, it's not entirely a lie. She hasn't slept well for four months. Nightmares, waking up every three hours or so, plagued by insomnia. She slept through the night for the first time last night, but she wasn't sure if it was due to her apparent intoxication or the proximity of Lestrade.

"You should know I never do this. _Never,_" Greg said, embarrassment playing on his face.

She laughed. "Me neither. Really," she replied.

"In fact," he said, "I honestly can't remember a bit of last night after we left Bart's."

"I know, me too." She took a sip of her tea, and looked up at Lestrade, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "When I woke up," she started, then immediately regretted even thinking to mention it and looked down at the bed.

"Yes?" he said. She looked up to see his chocolate eyes scanning her face. "Molly, what's wrong?"

"It's just... When I woke up, I thought," she choked a bit on her words, fully realizing how terrible it would have been. "I thought... it was _him_. Thought he had somehow... Somehow..." She couldn't talk anymore. She was fighting back tears, trying to be strong in front of a man she barely knew.

Lestrade reached his hand out and touched her face. "It's okay. He's gone. He can't hurt you." He took the tea mug out of her hands, set it on the bedside table, and wrapped her in a tight embrace. "I won't let him near you again. I promise you."

It was too much. Molly burst into tears, sobbing into his shoulder. Even the thought... The thought that she could be under his thumb again, just another prop, just a weak little mouse of a pathologist he could crush on his way to Sherlock burned with sheer pain like nothing else ever had.

They sat this way for awhile, silent and close. Protected. Molly eventually broke away, feeling ashamed, mumbling something about a tissue. She reached up to wipe a stray tear from her eye.

She glanced up at Lestrade's suddenly chagrined expression. "What?"

"Molly, have you looked out this window?"

"Excuse me?" said Molly, utterly confused. "The window? What about it?"

"It's not..." he started and then grabbed the latch to open it. He shook it violently. It stuck. He stared through it, at London bustling around. Panic darted across his face, and quickly dissolved. "Molly, stay calm, but this _isn't my flat_."

"What do you mean, not your flat? How could you not have noti-" She stopped. The window. It looked like an ordinary window, but when closely examined, behind the glass was a screen with a loop video of the view of London from Lestrade's window. Someone had obviously gone to great lengths to make it look realistic.

Molly panicked and began breathing heavily. "He's... he's... it's him, Greg, it's _him_."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: Another chapter, short but sweet. I don't want to say too much so as to spoil it for you. Hope you enjoy. Please review!

Disclaimer: Not even close to being mine.

"Molly," said Lestrade, comforting but firm, "We don't have time to get upset. I don't know who put us here or why the hell they did, but we _have_ to get out."

Molly took a deep breath and willed herself to stop crying. She couldn't stop herself from shaking, however. With a trembling hand, she reached down and grabbed her clothes. Lestrade said, "I'm going to check the front door, I'll be right back." He walked swiftly out of the bedroom. Molly dressed and stood up, looking at the screen behind the windowsill, mesmerized. He returned, hands nervously mussing his hair. "There's some sort of steel behind the front door. We're definitely locked in from that way." He paced about the room, checking walls, sockets, the window, _anything_ that could possibly hold a key to escape for them. He went to the heap of his clothes from the previous night, lying on the floor, replaced by green pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. He rummaged around in them for a few seconds before standing up sharply, frustrated.

"Damn it!" He said. "They took my fucking gun. Of course they took the gun."

_Well, of course they took your gun_, Molly wanted to point out. _What kind of abductor leaves their victims a weapon?_ But she didn't.

Greg walked to the door. "Just stay with me. Be alert." Molly knew he was a professional, but that didn't ease her mind at all. _Why us?_ She kept thinking. What could possibly be the motive?

They stepped out of the bedroom into the hallway. There weren't any other bedrooms to search, but there was a bathroom and a linen closet. Greg examined both thoroughly with Molly's help, but they were almost exactly, he assured her, as he left them.

"Greg?" Molly asked.

"Yes?"

"How do you know… Well, are you sure this isn't your flat and someone put screens behind your windows and a bar behind your door? It's possible, right?"

"No, it can't be," he replied. "But they went to great lengths to make it appear that way. See this shampoo?" He held up a bottle from the shower. "It's the same exact product I use but completely full. Same with the toothpaste and soap. Never used. I should have noticed the tea. I bet it's new too, damn it."

"But why wouldn't they go to lengths to make it appear more realistic?" asked Molly. "I mean, the loops of video on the windows aren't fooling anybody. Not for long. They're too short."

"I don't know what we're dealing with here, Molly," said Greg, shaking his head. "I've been on the police force for thirteen years and I've never encountered anything close to this. And I've encountered an awful lot."

Molly nodded and followed him to the kitchen, where he opened the tin that held the tea and examined it. She opened the fridge and found, again, that everything was brand new. She walked over to the window and found its scene to be a loop as well.

"I'm going to go check the living room for anything, okay?" Greg nodded affirmation, and she began walking into the living room.

He turned around. "Be careful. I don't think there's anything in here that will harm us, but _be careful_."

She walked to the cabinet in the corner. She looked inside at pictures of Lestrade from his younger years and thought he may have lost a bit of his carefree persona she saw in the pictures. Molly had heard that he had gone through a tough divorce, and a part of her wondered if he had children somewhere. She stood up again and suddenly felt ice- no, fingers as cold as ice- clamp over her mouth, gagging her. She writhed, but another small, strangely strong arm gripped her by the waist. A tenor voice whispered in her ear, "Miss me, _darling_?" Molly felt her eyes grow wider and started fighting harder. The feelings that the sound of that voice produced- fear the most recognizable, but it was accompanied by resentment, embarrassment, and dread- kicked her flight instinct in even harder. He gripped tighter.

"Now, now, little mouse," he said, ever so calmly, "we wouldn't want to be doing that, would we now? I have a gun, your, ah, _chaperone_" the way he said the word made Molly's anger flare even more, "was ever so kind to donate. But don't you worry, I wouldn't be needing that to kill _you_. At this moment in time, there are eight-no, nine- ways that I could kill you cleanly, hell, I could mix and match a few minor details in the execution of them, and you wouldn't. Make. A _sound_."

Molly stood still, paralyzed with fear. "Very good," the cashmere voice said, his hand reaching up to brush a stray bit of hair out of her face, then returning to her waist. "There's no reason not to be… cooperative." With that, he inched close- ever so close- to Molly. She felt the heat from his body on hers. "Now, dearest, let's go find our favorite Detective Inspector, shall we?"

He began to walk her to the kitchen, but turned abruptly. He sat her in a recliner in the corner, replacing the hand on her mouth with a cloth gag, tying her wrists, then her ankles, together with scratchy, rough rope. "We wouldn't want you trying to run, you clever girl. Of course, where would you run?" he chuckled, an empty, emotionless, noise. He leaned in, a centimeter away from her trembling lips. He breathed. "You know, you really are quite pretty when you're powerless. It's too bad you were too much of a goody-goody to ever stay the night. I think you may have found me quite… _kinky_." He stroked her cheek with his nails. "Oh, well. It's never too late to try something new. Don't get too comfortable, _sexy_."

Molly was shaken. _He's playing head games,_ she told herself. _It's what he does. He gets inside your brain. _She looked on helplessly as he strutted into the kitchen. Of course he couldn't just be gone. He would finish what he started, and Molly was still alive and breathing. He had unfinished business. She didn't know the rules to his game; nobody besides Moriarty did. The possibilities were positively endless; he had no boundaries for his malevolence. That was potentially the most frightening thing of all.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I still own nothing.

Author's Note: Sorry it's taken me so long to update. Another short one. Self-Beta'd, so if you see and grammar or spelling issues that you want to correct, please do. Reviews (good or bad!) are also always welcome. I'm really excited for where this is going, I won't lie. Also, writing Moriarty is fantastic. Enjoy! :)

Molly sat in the recliner, helpless, with a million scenarios running through her head. It was a downside of her intelligence—she could imagine any number of terrible, horrific things that could happen but, unlike Sherlock, couldn't deduce what was actually plausible. She attempted to scream, but the gag was incredibly effective. She strained against her bonds, trying to escape, but to no avail. Moriarty was a psychopath, but a clever psychopath, and his knots held.

Molly froze and listened when she heard a crashing sound in the kitchen. Greg was no doubt fighting Jim. Lestrade was not the sort of man to simply go down without a struggle. She hoped for his sake that he knew how hopeless it was. _Don't struggle_, she thought,_ he'll only hurt you more._ Angry tears streamed down her face. _Just leave us alone_. Suddenly, there was silence. Molly heard no more noise from the kitchen. _Please don't die_, she thought. _Don't leave me here with him_.

But that was not the case. A moment later, Jim returned with an unconscious Lestrade tied to a rolling desk chair. He positioned his chair directly adjacent to Molly's. "You see, I knew he wouldn't go down without a fight, this one. He's quite the little hero, all action and bravery. Almost admirable," Jim said, grinning. "He'll be joining us again in about thirty seconds, Molly, dear. Then we have the fun part." Molly dreaded what the meaning of "fun part" could possibly be. From what Moriarty had shown them thus far, his idea of "fun" was far from normal. Or ethical.

Jim (_Moriarty_, Molly echoed over and over in her head. _This is not Jim from IT_) stood in front of the chairs as if he was about to give a formal speech. When Greg's eyes fluttered open, Moriarty's grin widened with his eyes. Greg began thrashing and struggling, a look of pure contempt on his face. Molly stared, trying to convey with her eyes how pointless it was. Moriarty cleared his throat. "So nice of you to join us, Detective Inspector. We're thrilled to have you, naturally. It isn't everyday that you get to tie and gag the man who kept you from murdering your arch nemesis." Lestrade glared daggers at him.

"Of course, you two little almost-lovebirds are most likely wondering what circumstances brought you here. Where is here? Now isn't that a good question. I can't tell you. We do, however, have time to kill, and I'd be happy to explain _how_ and _why_ you are here.

"As you know, our friend Sherlock has been busy sniffing me out after our little incident at the pool was so rudely interrupted by the good Detective Inspector Lestrade and crew. So I devised a little plan to get him back, all to myself. In all honesty, it was supposed to happen later, but last night was just _absolutely perfect_. Molly wasn't even a part of the original plan, but after you had gone for drinks and offered to walk her home like such a gentleman, how could I possibly resist?"

He walked toward Molly and stroked her cheek. "I never miss an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone, if you'll forgive my pun." He chuckled to himself. "So kidnapping and drugging you was cake, really. Ridiculously simple. Had my men use drugs whose symptoms would seem remarkably like a bad hangover when waking up. And did you like the cute little arrangement with the bed? That was my personal favorite. You two never actually laid a hand on one another.

"And so, here we are, chatting in the living room. The funny thing is, you're not even important. I should have sent someone else to dispose of you, but what would be the fun in that? But you see, you're still useful. With me, it's fairly simple: if you are useful, you will stay alive. You can't play games with me, so don't try. Of course, you can't stay useful forever, and it's never as simple as letting you go alive." He beamed at them as if he had just bestowed upon them a gift. "You two are cute. Perhaps I could keep you as pets."

Jim then reached into his pocket and held up a syringe. Molly cringed. Her eyes grew wide and she began to struggle again. "Don't fret, Molly, darling, this isn't for you, just for DI Lestrade. We won't be needing him now." He strutted over the the writhing Lestrade and stuck the needle in his arm. He twitched once and went still.

Molly started shaking. _He's dead._ She thought. _He's killed him. _More angry tears, impossible to fight, filled her eyes. She couldn't _handle _this anymore. "Oh, stop the fussing already! He's not _dead._" Jim said with exasperation. He pulled Lestrade's gun out of the other pocket of his designer suit and held it on Molly as he untied the knots around her legs. "Now, up, Molly darling, we have work to do."


End file.
